


Visions of an Angel, Oil on Canvas

by imperialfool



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Museum adventure, Not Beta Read, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, at least i think it is, talk of butts, there's so much touching happening here but nothing too explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26194258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialfool/pseuds/imperialfool
Summary: A painting of a nude Aziraphale now hangs at one of the biggest collections of European art in the world. And Crowley can't get over it.Inspired by Whiteley Foster's Rubens' Angel art, who was in turn inspired by Puncnuq's art of Aziraphale modeling for a painter. There's more art being added under the hashtag #angelexhibition.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 60





	Visions of an Angel, Oil on Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Got inspired by [Whiteley Foster's Rubens' Angel](https://www.instagram.com/p/CEUWDjGF-O0/), who was also inspired by [Puncnuq's art of Aziraphale](https://www.instagram.com/p/CEROrAFlnGl/) forgetting he modeled for a painter long ago. I've also recently seen [Alice Rovai's Renoir Aziraphale](https://www.instagram.com/p/CEcUYV3KHM1/). 
> 
> I think a hashtag has already been created, #angelexhbition, so you can check that one out to see more of this lovely trend.

Madrid in early February seemed to be stuck between the dregs of the cold breeze of January and the warmth promised by the new month. 

The perfect time to visit. 

The last time Crowley and Aziraphale were here was a human lifetime ago, and as far as retirement packages are concerned, visiting old stomping grounds felt like a good deal. 

They were at the tail-end of a long day reacquainting themselves with the ghosts of the city and its new tenants. By a miracle of perhaps both their doing, Museo del Prado - usually rife with tourists and dawdling locals - welcomed them with bustling activity yet tolerable crowds. 

“I quite like this particular Bosch,” Crowley mused, thumbs lovingly rubbing circles against the back of Aziraphale’s hand, looking at _The Cure of Folly_. “I like art that has something important to say but will go out of its way to make a joke about it first.”

Aziraphale chuckled in delight and raised their clasped hands to give Crowley’s a quick kiss. “Yes, layers of clever symbolism. I do _love_ layers.”

Both move in between the sculptures and paintings with the ease of people who have stopped expecting the proverbial shoe to drop. Among the Goyas, Dürers, and El Grecos, private stories were shared about the artists they’ve met, the cities they’ve visited, and maybe one or two loud opinions about certain artworks one of the touring groups was flabbergasted to hear. 

“Oh, I’m quite looking forward to this one, darling,” Aziphale said excitedly dragging Crowley over to the area of the museum they haven’t gone to yet. “I met this painter in one of my brief visits to Madrid.”

“Go on angel, lead the way,” the demon replied amused.

From the loose brushwork of Titian, they entered a wide-ceilinged hall filled with the striking, erudite work of Peter Paul Rubens. Landscape paintings that encapsulate the profound effervescence of nature the artist evidently fell in love with. Enormous works of a religious and historical nature and yet the careful, delicate strokes of the brush show a sensitivity and understanding that does nothing but draw you in.

Crowley’s eyes squinted behind tinted glasses looking at _Orpheus and Eurydice_. The nervous body language of Pluto and Prosperina, Orpheus about to look back, and the stark, deathly white image of Eurydice. ”The kids have a meme for this, you know,” the demon said. “I think it’s called ‘picture that precedes unfortunate events’.”

Aziraphale, openly laughing, said, “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

They walked further along the gallery appreciating more of the collection when something caught Crowley’s eye. “No you did not…” he said as he grasped at the angel’s hand tight and started hauling him to the opposite direction. The demon stops them in front of a tall frame, ‘Rubens’ Angel’ the gold plate said. 

“Aziraphale,” amazed, like a kid who just got to the surprise centre inside the candy. “You didn’t tell me you were a model!” he shouted, completely ignorant of the small group of people still walking about the exhibit. 

Looming over them is the back of a bare-skinned Aziraphale with his head turned to the side, as though he’s just caught you peeking into his boudoir. “Oh, dear lord,” a shocked Aziraphale stared at a panel painting of himself, skin covered in flimsy fabric, the dim background cleverly chosen to accent his curvaceous, bright form. 

_Ah, yes, I remember now._ Faded images of the painter swimming slowly in his mind. A whole day affair of sitting quite still, of quiet grumbling about getting the colour right, of seeing himself through an artist’s eyes.

The product of which now hangs in one of the biggest collections of art in the world. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the demon beside him who seemed to have rooted himself front and dead centre of the painting. “The lighting, those eyes, _that body,”_ said thoughtlessly by a Crowley still in a trance.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said distressed. “I think I’d like to try that churreria out front. Come now. Please,”he said practically leaning his full weight just to push the demon along. 

“No, but really, when did this happen?” he slipped his sunglasses on his head and stared at the painting as if he’s an art critic trying to solve the mystery of every brush stroke and colour choice. “How come I didn’t know about this?”

Already considering picking Crowley up from the floor and carrying him out of the museum, Aziraphale answered, “I’ve honestly completely forgotten about this.”

Crowley has a penchant to hyperfocus on things he wants to unravel, whether it’s the location of a lost antichrist or the curious behaviour of a duck in the nighttime. Aziraphale is quite fond of this, but at the moment, he just wants him to budge and slither out. “Let’s go, Crowley,” he said desperately. 

About to ask another question, Crowley turned to the angel and found him pouting, puffed up bright eyes in full force in his direction. And while every minute cell of his buzzing body just wanted to continue prodding, he just wasn’t built for an Aziraphale adorably sulking. “Fine,” he said mercifully. “I’m not dropping this though. This is obviously very, _very_ relevant to my interests.”

“Yes, I expected as much, my dear. But best not discuss that here.” From the warmth of the museum and to the cold, crisp streets of the city, Aziraphale spotted the _Chocolat_ and quickly hauled them to its direction.

A view of labyrinthine alleyways, contemporary architecture, and a few smatterings of old-world glamour from their window side seats were served with the comforting smell of pastry and chocolate - it came with a side of burnt fingertips as they reach for their still-hot churros, and a dollop of that bittersweet taste of cacao on their tongues. 

Unsurprisingly, Crowley, who was in the middle of losing a battle against the stubborn runny egg of his sandwich, is staring at him looking about to burst any second. “Dear me,” the angel said with a sigh. He took a final bite of his churros and dabbed at his mouth, “Go on, ask your questions.”

Rapid-fire shots would be envious of how Crowley shot off his mouth. “How did it happen? Did he ask you? How did you meet? Where was the painting kept if not with you? Did he keep it? Was it commissioned by someone? And more importantly, how can you ever, _ever_ forget about that happening?” The demon finished with a wide toothy grin plastered on his face and both hands tucked against his chin.

The angel took a deep breath, rummaging through his memory. “I met him in one of the diplomatic meetings here in Madrid. And then one day, he asked me if I could sit in for a painting.” He remembers the painter looking embarrassed for having even thought of it. “I immediately agreed, of course. Rubens’ talent had quite a reputation already.”

“So right after the portrait was made, you didn’t know where it ended up?”

“No, I saw it - thought it was beautiful, of course - but I was already given my next assignment before I even considered asking what the portrait was for.”

Crowley seemed to mull this over while taking a bite from the chocolate-dipped churro Aziraphale is giving him. “Angel, if someone had painted me as good as that—”

“But you _have_ been painted as good as that,” he interrupted.

“Will you let me finish? If someone had painted me as good as that, I think I’d remember.”

Aziraphale took a long sip of his hot chocolate. He didn’t mean to forget, he just got busy. There were just tasks the Arrangement can’t accommodate. “I’m just grateful they’re not _all_ in one museum,” he said sheepishly.

“You mean there are _more_ paintings of your butt out there?!”

“Oh, why not shout it even louder, dear. I think that guard over there didn’t hear you,” the angel said. “Really, Crowley, you’re making it sound crass. I didn’t do it just to show off my back side.”

“...well, if the paintings all have your—“

“Don’t even _think_ of finishing that sentence you wily serpent. And yes, now that I’ve seen _that_ , I’m starting to recall agreeing to one other...or more.”

With a half-suppressed laugh, Crowley called for the bill and reached for Aziraphale’s hand. “Alright, that’ll be enough for now, angel, I promise. I’ll continue at the apartment.”

In true tourist spirit, they decided to rent a bed and breakfast just off the city centre. Not too far from the sights and sounds of Madrid, but hidden enough from it that the only thing that wakes them is the soft morning light that comes through slitted windows, and the only thing that lulls them are their gentle breaths and sweet caresses. 

A comfortable silence settled in the apartment as they went about preparing for bed. The kind of quiet that invites you to fill it in, not with sound, but with shy glances and yearning touches, and domestic moments they’re determined to collect and keep in their secret grotto. 

“Come on, angel,” Crowley patted the space in between his legs, pillows supporting his back as he leaned on the headboard. “Read your book here, I want to cuddle you.” Aziraphale is only too happy, of course. Quickly picking up _The Enchanted April_ , he goes on the bed and comfortably reclined on the demon’s chest as Crowley hugged his middle from behind.

“Arghhhhh! Soft!” Crowley said muffled into the angel’s shoulder. He swayed them both lightly, squeezing the angel once in a while whenever his body complains of the lack of cosy warmth. He’d kiss into his hair when hugging just doesn’t feel enough, and his hands would gently stroke what he could reach as soon as he felt the electrifying tingles that beckoned him to do so. Resting his head on Aziraphale’s back, he took a deep breath and allowed himself to drown in the sensations.

His mind, however, decided to conjure up the painting again. Soft, dramatic lighting that brings focus on the brilliant form of Aziraphale. Stripping the angel of more than just his clothing, but his guardedness and diffidity. Eyes that look defiant, a hushed temerity that dares you to take action. He’d be lying if he said the obviously globular buttocks exposed almost ten feet in front of him didn’t get his attention, but it was also because this painter knew to capture his angel’s core - strong, no nonsense, and brave. And as true in real life as it was standing in front of the panel painting, he was so drawn to it.

“Crowley, darling, I can hear you thinking,” Aziraphale broke in his thoughts. Putting down the book on the nightstand, the angel turned in his arms and wound his hands around his neck. “Something wrong?”

He nuzzled the angel’s neck, moving along his jaw, and finally found his lips. A deep, lingering kiss will always reveal the hunger that buzzes just under the skin, waiting to be let out. Mingling breaths telling more about the other’s yearning that no words can ever convey. Crowley pulled away first and began playfully showering the angel with quick kisses everywhere on his face. A tittering Aziraphale retaliated by holding Crowley’s face on either side and squeezing both of his cheeks. 

Hands that are still tight around Aziraphale’s waist started tickling the angel. “Crowley!” Aziraphale guffaws as he falls sideways on the mattress, dragging the demon down to make him stop. “Seriously, Crowley, I’ve already got half a mind of flipping you over and holding you down,” he said, trying to steady the hands that are still attacking him.

“Ooh, you know I like it when you manhandle me,” he continued tickling with renewed vigour, this time locking his legs around Aziraphale’s waist so that the angel can’t move away.

“If you don’t stop I’m going to have to restrain you,” Aziraphale successfully captured one of Crowley’s arms and proceeded to move him so that his demon is trapped and immobile on top of him.

One arm out of commission, he placed his free hand near the angel’s head and leaned down to whisper, “You promise?”

Laughing, Aziraphale lets go of the arm to pull him down for a short kiss. “You’re ridiculous, darling.” Cupping his cheeks, they shared a few more delicate presses of the lips. There’s something to be said about lazy kisses. If you ask them what being untethered to their sides means, this would be it — the openness of the act, the absence of urgency, the intimacy of allowing the other to come near and take what you’re freely giving. 

Crowley finally shifted and nuzzled into the angel’s chest, arms and legs clinging tight around him. Head pillowed on top of his heart, he closed his eyes and listened to the comforting beats and breaths of his love. After a moment’s pause, Aziraphale lifted his hand to card through the demon’s hair. “You didn’t answer my question, love. Is something wrong?” he asked carefully.

He breathed in his angel’s scent through the fabric of his shirt, “Nothing’s wrong, angel. I’m just thinking about that painting again.” The fingers on his hair stopped moving, to which Crowley’s knee-jerk reaction was to whine very loudly for Aziraphale to resume. “I promise I’m gonna drop it soon. I just have...thoughts.”

Aziraphale gently lifted his head off his chest so he could look at Crowley, thumb tracing his cheekbones. “Penny for your thoughts, then?”

The angel already understood that the way Crowley expresses himself has always been through action. Even their Arrangement - the clauses of which had been few and clear - seemed to have a fineprint only Crowley was aware of. For every task Aziraphale picks up for him, he would go out of his way to do favours he knows the angel would appreciate. It started with Hamlet, yes. But then there would be villages who housed him that would be protected from invaders or children he taught that would miraculously be spared from diseases. Acts of service deeply rooted in his love for which the angel is still working to deserve. Nonetheless, these were done in place of free expression. So the angel thinks that now more than ever, it’s time for them both to take advantage of being able to verbalise that love and allow the words to mark their skin and cement their claim.

Limned by the silver moonlight from the window, Crowley sits up to straddle the angel. “Fine. First, when we get home you will immediately list down all the artists who've ever painted you and I will personally track those paintings down so we can visit them. Because, Aziraphale - my sweet, sweet angel - those butts need to be looked at. By me. With my own eyes.”

Hands that were previously stroking his thighs swatted them lightly, “Stop that, they don’t all have my butt.”

“Yeah, but I’m willing to bet you’re naked in most of them,” he winked as he took Aziraphale’s hands to kiss the inside of his wrists. “Second,” a slow smirk appeared on his face. Crowley placed his angel's hands around his waist and bent down until their foreheads were touching, “Close your eyes, love. I want to tell you what _I_ would do if I were there. If I had been the one painting you.”

Aziraphale gasped when he felt fingers tenderly combing through his soft, white curls. “I’d find any excuse to do this. Maybe I’ll pretend to fix your hair so I can keep tousling these gorgeous curls whenever I like.” He could feel more than hear Aziraphale’s heavy breathing under him as he continued his ministrations, massaging his scalp soothingly until he felt the angel go slack. 

Whenever the angel lets go of control under his hands, the extent of what that means still takes his breath away. This is a being who has found comfort in knowing he can trust the walls he built around himself no matter how unpredictable everything else may be. It had taken longer than he would have liked, but the moment Aziraphale himself took a hammer to tear down those walls and presented Crowley with its debris, was the moment the angel showed him how much power he has over him. 

He shifted his attention to Aziraphale’s face, taking his time in tracing his brows, eyes, nose, and lips. “I think I’ll take longer painting this. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with the way I colour those storm-grey eyes, the way I draw these wrinkles that show your endless mirth. These lips that have moaned in pleasure, spun words of gold, kissed with the intensity of a thousand suns.” Aziraphale, with his eyes still closed, snaked his hands up from his waist to rest on Crowley’s shoulder blades. Comprehending the silent request, he bracketed his angel’s head with his arms and moved down to catch his lips. Deepening the kiss, Aziraphale tilted Crowley’s head just so while his arm found rest at the small of his back. 

Pulling away, Crowley nuzzled his neck before sitting up again. “Stop distracting me, I’m not done yet.” 

“This painting is taking longer than I’d like,” the angel teased.

Crowley chuckled, “Hush, I’m almost done.”

Hands were stroking every inch of Aziraphale’s body as he slid further down the mattress, spending a little more time on the angel’s broad chest and soft middle. Then down to his waist and hips, his formidable thighs, until Crowley’s hands were atop his knees. “I love everything about you, angel. And there’s just something about this body that makes me want to bury myself in it, carve myself an enclave where I can hide for warmth. I’ll want to make sure other people who see it will _know_ , will understand the effusiveness of your love and the strength of your protection.”

Crowley slithered back up. One hand was back on the angel’s downy curls while the other rested on his cheek. “You can open your eyes now.”

“Hmm,” blue eyes met slitted, yellow ones. Aziraphale held Crowley close as he sat up so that the demon was astride him. “I must say, if you had been the one painting me. I’ll do any pose you like for however long you’d want me in front of you.”

“Then I don’t think that session is ever going to end, angel. I _always_ want you in front of me.”

Both aren’t completely over the novelty of moments like this. A thousand years of avoiding even the slightest brush of hands have taught them not to take for granted this pure contentment they forcibly took from the universe’s hands. “Is there a third thought, dearest,” the angel quietly asked. 

A surprised yelp rushed out of Aziraphale when Crowley snapped his fingers to miracle their clothes away. “It’s sexy times, angel!” He attempted to give him a scolding which only made Crowley laugh even harder. 

There, in their own nook within a city they’ve only previously known through task orders and reports, an angel and a demon held each other close. Madrid, perhaps knowing the profundity of the day’s events, decided to let mellow tunes drift towards a specific street corner, and to clear the skies so that the stars knew where to twinkle the most.

**Author's Note:**

> Been practicing how to do fantasy writing and worldbuilding with another Good Omens fic. Watch me fail and cry over at [The Book of Keter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000457/chapters/57734743).


End file.
